


Loki's Christmas Guest*

by PyrrhaIphis



Series: Holiday Fics [5]
Category: Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: Christmas-time, F/M, Odd, gods in modern setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 09:05:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13143435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyrrhaIphis/pseuds/PyrrhaIphis
Summary: *Warning:  Contains very little Christmas-related material.Loki is settled in to watch the chaos of mortals scrambling in the Christmas season when Thor suddenly shows up to his place in a rage.  Seems he's blaming Loki for his marital troubles...?Kind of, sort of a sequel to the piece I wrote last year, when Hermes came to visit Loki to get away from gloating Roman gods.





	Loki's Christmas Guest*

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for my blog, but I figured why not post it here, too?
> 
> Someday, I'd like to go back and fix this up; I wanted to get it posted today, so I didn't have time to go in and insert all the points I wanted to cover and didn't get to because I'm a terrible pantser. (So, in a way, this is a bit of an abbreviated version of the ideal, but as the ideal may never exist...)

            A particularly raucous—and raunchy—office Christmas party was playing out at full volume on the central television.  The one to the right featured the usual maddened, last-minute shopping at a particularly wild American mall.  The one to the left, of course, featured a rapid montage of mortals being trapped underneath the mistletoe:  that was always Loki’s favorite.  The chaos of the conflicting audio streams of the three monitors was the best music to his ears.  (Certainly far better than listening to just one of the streams by itself:  how the mortals could stand listening to so much of that unfiltered dreck mystified even him.)

            The noise of someone pounding on the front door could be heard even over the delightful cacophony, however, and Loki wasn’t fool enough to think it was someone dropping over for a casual chat.  The friendly guests knocked:  they didn’t try to break the door in.

            The obvious ill-will of their visitor didn’t stop Sigyn from answering the door, naturally.  She was far too dutiful for that.  Besides, she knew that Loki could handle anything any half-wit might want to dish out.  And only a half-wit would behave in such an uncivilized manner as their current guest.

            “Where is he?!”

            Ah.  Who else could it be, really?  Most of the other gods in Asgard had calmed down over the centuries, but that hot-head…he was never going to learn.

            “My husband is observing mortals in the hall,” Sigyn replied, her voice melodious as always, uncowed by their guest’s barbaric fury.  Her constancy was both a blessing and a curse:  sometimes, it irritated Loki so much that he couldn’t stand to be in the same world as her, and other times it made her the loveliest female he had ever set eyes on.  Just at the moment, it was slightly annoying, but not worth more than an eye-roll or two.

            As the interloper stormed his way into the den, Loki took the opportunity to revise his appearance a bit.  Visitors from other realms might not do more than twitch an eyebrow at the sight of a comfy, microfiber robe and warm, fuzzy slippers, but an Aesir?  A risky prospect at best, and with _that_ Aesir, a recipe for disaster.  But by the time Odin’s most comical son entered the hall, Loki was ‘appropriately’ dressed:  like his visitor, he suddenly looked as though it was still the Middle Ages.

            “It’s all _your_ fault!” Thor bellowed as soon as he arrived, beady eyes glaring at Loki above a fearsome scowl that was almost overwhelmed by the bushy, blond beard that hadn’t been groomed in eons, by the looks of it.

            “That is usually your assessment for everything,” Loki agreed.  “What, exactly, have I done now?”

            “It’s your fault Sif won’t share my bed anymore!” Thor insisted, raising Mjolnir over his head.

            “Eh?”  Even Loki was left speechless at _that_.  How was he supposed to have interfered with Thor’s bridal bed?  He hadn’t laid eyes on the golden-haired Sif in centuries, nor had he any interest in her, apart from her potential as a way of winding Thor up, should the desire to make a little mischief stir itself out of idleness.

            The hammer might have come down on Loki’s stunned pate if one of the mortals on the left screen hadn’t suddenly let out a very loud exclamation including the word “mistletoe.”  That attracted Thor’s attention—Loki suddenly regretted having put a simple translation enchantment on his television—and sent the massive hammer crashing through the screen.  Even as its pieces fell away and the signal reverted to the central television, Thor rounded on Loki, eyes maddened and bulging.  “You vile traitor!” he roared.

            “Must you always exaggerate everything so terribly?  I’m really not so bad.”  Loki was doing his best to maintain his composure.  Losing his temper would only encourage Thor.  And possibly get his skull crushed by Thor’s hammer.

            “Tell that to my brother,” Thor growled.

            “You know, he did get better.”  Baldr’s revival—like everything else about Ragnarok—was a bit amorphous, of course, but Thor probably couldn’t even grasp the complex potentialities of a myth the mortals believed was in their own future, a future that never properly arrived, thanks to the untimely interference of a foreign religion.

            “No thanks to you.”

            What could Loki do but shrug? Did it even matter whether or not he had disguised himself as an old Jotunn hag and refused to cry?  _Someone_ had to do it, or Baldr’s death would have been meaningless.  Odin had—eventually—understood and accepted that, and convinced the rest of the Aesir and Vanir of it.  Except for his idiot son, that is.

            “And you—you villain!  Are you _pleased_ by our downfall!?”  Thor crashed his hammer through the right screen, returning its video to the main television.  “Always reveling in their pleasure in this upstart religion!”

            Loki moved in front of the last television—the _real_ one—and held up his hands in a placating gesture.  “Think about it, my dear boy.  What could be more delicious than seeing their hypocrisy in action?  So many of these louts go about spouting hate at the Middle East, and yet what are they so enthusiastic about but the celebration of the birthday of Mithras—the Roman reinvention of the Iranian Mithra.  You met him about five hundred years ago, remember?”  He probably wasn’t too pleased to see how his Roman festival had been reinterpreted since the 1840s, but those Zoroastrians were a Stoic lot, so he was probably reserved about it.

            Thor wasn’t having any.  He raised Mjolnir again, glaring death at Loki.  A television—no matter how cleverly enhanced with a bit of magic—was certainly not worth losing his immortal life over, but Loki wasn’t sure that Thor really wanted to destroy the _television_ anyway.  Moving might not help much.  But he wasn’t sure what else he could do, except perhaps to depend on his own hardiness and hope he survived the first blow.

            “Many mortal scholars compare Baldr to the god they’re claiming to worship with all this rubbish,” Loki suggested, hoping to prevent the blow from falling.  “They’re considered to be the same type of god—so in a way they’re celebrating your brother, too.”

            And that didn’t work, either.  Of course not.  What logic could get through Thor’s thick skull?

            As the hammer started falling towards him, Loki couldn’t help cringing back, covering his skull with his hands.  He didn’t care if it looked cowardly:  he wanted to live.

            The blow never landed, however.  “Would you care for a drink, my lord?”

            When Loki opened his eyes, he saw his delightful wife standing between himself and Thor, with a horn of mead in her hands.  Mjolnir’s downward swing had been checked as soon as she stepped into its path, mere inches from her delicate head.  With an embarrassed look on his face, Thor returned his hammer to his belt, and accepted the drink.  “Thank you,” he muttered under his breath.

            “My, how polite you’ve become!” Sigyn gushed, without even looking at Thor as she helped Loki back to his feet.  “You’ve matured so much since I last saw you.”

            Thor snorted into his mead.  “Wouldn’t think so by listening to _my_ wife,” he grumbled.

            Loki grimaced, shaking his head.  “Since you’re blaming me for it, why don’t you tell me what the trouble is between you and Sif?  I can assure you, it’s none of my doing, but I might be able to help.”  Anything to get the lout out of his house.

            “She says I’m not attractive enough,” Thor growled.

            “And how could that be _my_ fault?!”  Thor had always been ugly, a walking mountain of hair and muscles!  That was nothing Loki had ever done; if Thor wanted to blame someone, he should have blamed his parents for making him in the first place.

            “She never complained before the mortals started that—that—that _disgrace_ to my name!” Thor roared, throwing his half-emptied horn at Loki’s face.  “And don’t think for a minute you can trick me into thinking that wasn’t your doing!”

            Loki sighed as he wiped mead off his face.  “If by ‘disgrace’ you mean what I think you mean, it’s none of my doing.  And you ought to be grateful to it:  you’re more popular with mortals than you have been for centuries.”

            “That hairless pansy isn’t me!”

            With a raised eyebrow, Loki aimed his remote at the television and changed the feed to show the latest embarrassment to Asgard.  The pretty fellow on the screen was fighting off hordes of computer-generated dwarf-like monstrosities—allegedly from Muspellheim, though they hardly looked fiery enough for it—as well as a dragon.  Hardly behavior Loki would put in the ‘pansy’ category.  Not if it was real, at any rate.  Faked behavior like this was harder to judge…

            “I’m not sure I understand your complaint,” Loki said, shaking his head as he turned back to look at Thor.  “What does this have to do with your good lady?”

            Sigyn laughed quietly, and leaned in to whisper into Loki’s ear.  “I’m sure it’s the comparison to the mortal that leaves Sif unsatisfied.”

            Loki’s laugh might have been a little mean-spirited.  “I’d think comparing him to _anyone_ would do that.”

            “What was that?” Thor asked, glaring at him through squinted eyes.

            “Why do you even _care_ if Sif is attracted to you?” Loki asked.  “You never used to care about whether or not she consented to go to your bed.”

            Thor grimaced.  “Father said he doesn’t want us falling too far behind the mortals.  So no more raping and pillaging, no more slaughtering dwarves and giants just because they’re there.”

            Considering Loki’s own Jotunn heritage, he was certainly pleased to hear _that_.  “Then the problem is just that she’s disappointed that you’re so much uglier than the mortal in these movies?”  Such a trivial thing!

            “I’m much better than he is!” Thor insisted.

            “Stronger, more powerful, certainly more long-lived, but better-looking?  Never.”  Loki shook his head.  “You’re a mess no maiden would ever want in her bed.  But this fellow…”  He glanced over his shoulder at the television, showing the Australian chap back in their computer-generated misconception of Asgard.  “I’d think any female who likes men would be happy to have such a good-looking man.”  He shrugged.  “I know _I_ ’d sleep with him.”

            “You’re disgusting,” Thor said, stepping backwards.

            “So much for not falling behind the mortals,” Loki chuckled.  “But if you want to win back your fair wife, pounding my skull in won’t help you any.”

            “It will make me feel better.”

            “A brief palliative, which might well make things worse for you in the long run,” Loki told him firmly.  “No, you must show her that you understand your shortcomings and want to do something about them.”

            “I don’t have any shortcomings!” Thor shouted.  “Anyone who told you I do is a liar!”

            Loki grimaced.  There were several ways Thor could have misinterpreted that sentence, all of them pathetically childish.  “Your appearance is a disaster.  That is a shortcoming, without question, and it is undoubtedly part of Sif’s dissatisfaction.”  Thor’s utter barbarism and general tendency towards drunkenness and mindless violence were likely also large factors.  But those issues were best left to someone Thor was less likely to try to murder.  Loki turned to Sigyn.  “A shave and a trim will do him worlds of good, I’m sure.”

            “Of course, my love,” Sigyn agreed, gliding off with a smile.

            “A…shave…?”  Thor almost sounded afraid.  Such a gratifying sound!

            “Your beard is a fright to behold,” Loki told him with a chuckle.  “Even if she doesn’t like you clean-shaven, seeing that you would rob yourself of that messy monstrosity for her sake is sure to please her.”

            “But…”

            “Beards _do_ grow back.”  Loki couldn’t contain a smirk.  “Do you expect your _marriage_ to grow back?”

            “I detest you.”

            “Duly noted.”  And not the least bit surprising.  “Now, sit down on the table here, and we’ll get to work cleaning you up,” Loki added, as Sigyn returned with the necessary tools.  All the tools other than a hedge-trimmer, at any rate, which would have been quite a useful tool for the onerous task ahead…

            Of course, all of Loki’s tools were a bit stronger and more _creative_ than their mortal equivalents, but even so it took nearly an hour to rid Thor of the tangled, knotted outgrowth on his chin, and to trim back and clean up the rest of his hair.

            The end result was…well, it was an improvement over his former state, but it was hardly attractive.  Still, after the poor goddess had put up with his disgusting, ungroomed self for so many centuries, she would probably take what she could get.  With a little work, they were able to convince _Thor_ of that, at any rate, and that was the important part, because it got him to leave at long last.

            Once the brute was gone, Loki magicked away the door—not a permanent fix, but it would be sure to hold for a day or two—and turned to take his wife in his arms.  “Have I told you lately how much I appreciate you?” he asked.

            “Not in several decades,” Sigyn answered, with a patient smile.  “I’ll be happy to hear as much praise as you’d like to give…after we clean up all this hair.”

            “The Roomba can do that,” Loki assured her, calling out the device with a press of a button.  “Right now, we have more interesting things to do.  Here, I’ll carry you to the other room…”  To make sure he wouldn’t embarrass himself by dropping her, he turned into a horse.

            Sigyn laughed, and climbed up onto her husband’s back.  “Just don’t make any messes on the carpet on the way to the bedroom,” she said, stroking his (her) mane.

            “What _do_ you take me for?” Loki whinnied at her, as (s)he struck a leisurely pace out of the room, leaving the television alone with the whirring Roomba.

**Author's Note:**

> The reason for "his (her) mane" and "(s)he" is that Loki turned into a mare (again). So, you know, he'll have to change back when they get to the bedroom.
> 
> My paranoia insisted that I post this explanatory note, not trusting the text to have made that obvious.
> 
> My paranoia is OP.


End file.
